Hanover Square Affair, The (17 page)

“Which house? The right- or left hand house as you face them?”

John blinked a moment then pointed toward the south wall. Left hand it was.

“And who is in the right-hand house?”

John stared a moment, then to my surprise, he broke into a grin. “Gent called Preston. Never home. Son is, though.”

I remembered the very first time I’d stood before number 22, when Thornton had been throwing bricks at it and screaming his grief. The curtain in the window above number 23 had shifted, the person behind it far more interested in what was happening outside than in protecting himself.

“Who is this son?” I asked.

John chuckled. “Young Master Philip. He likes a chat, sir, whenever I goes by. Hasn’t got many who’ll talk to him, poor lad.”

I stored that information away, reflecting that a lad who liked looking out the windows might prove useful.

“Thank you,” I said, and turned to depart.

“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for a footman, would you?” John asked wistfully. “Only I can do all kinds of work. Except garden.”

I shook my head. “If I hear of anything, how may I send you word?”

“Oh, I’m going back to my ma too. In the Haymarket. She so wanted me to go into service. She thinks I’m a useless lout. Maybe she’s right.” He stopped a moment. “What happened to the girl, sir? The one called Aimee.”

I raised my brows. “Aimee has gone to live with her aunt.”

John sighed and dropped a bulging sack into the crate. “I told her, if she ever wanted me, all she had to do was send word. She never did.”

I could not feel surprised by this. Likely Aimee wanted to put anything associated with Horne’s household far behind her.

“She needs time to heal,” I offered. “When she has rested and mended, perhaps she will remember you.”

I very much doubted it, but he so wanted the crumbs I tossed him.

John brightened. “That may be, sir. I can wait.”

I wondered for a moment if John had murdered his master in jealousy and anger over Aimee. He was a large and strong young man who could easily have overpowered the smaller Horne and stabbed him in one quick blow.

My speculation ended there. I could not imagine John calmly waiting for the body to be discovered, and still longer for Aimee to be found. He would have smashed open the wardrobe door and carried her off into the night.

I said good night and left the kitchen through the scullery. As I closed the door, John tipped an armload of cups into a crate, where they landed with a smash of porcelain. He tossed in a copper pot on top of the lot.

I climbed back to the street. The rain came down harder, and the low clouds darkened the day. I walked to the left hand house, my shoulders hunched against the wet.

I did not know Viscount Berring, and calling on him without introduction or appointment, especially with his lofty station, would be extremely bad manners. He’d think me an uncouth lout, but I had to waive etiquette in pursuit of my quest.

The footman, who looked as though he had a few more thoughts between his ears than did John, took my card, ushered me silently into a reception room, and disappeared.

This house matched Horne’s in layout—a fine staircase on one side of the house, and two grand rooms on the other—but there the similarity ended. Berring had decorated his house with paintings of taste and furnishings of comfort and elegance. I sensed a woman’s touch, evident in the embroidered cushions, soft colors, and overall feeling of warmth.

The footman reappeared and, to my surprise, told me to follow him upstairs.

High above, on the landing that encircled the very top of the house, a little girl, a slightly older girl, and a woman, clearly their mother, watched me with undisguised curiosity. I saluted them, and the two little girls giggled. The woman gave me a gentle smile.

An unlooked-for and nearly overwhelming wave of loneliness swept over me. The image of a very small girl, very long ago, filled my vision, and in an instant I was carried back in time. I felt warm sun on my face, saw the flash of gold on my daughter’s hair, saw her smile at me, reaching her small hands to mine.

The chill dark of London rushed back at me. It mocked me, that chill, reminding me of all I’d lost. I quickly looked away and followed the footman to the first-floor hall.

Viscount Berring received me in a bright room facing the square. He was a middle aged man, slim and upright, with a full head of gray hair. He held out his hand.

“Captain Lacey? I have heard of you.”

I grasped his hand politely. “I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “It is actually your valet, Marcel, that I have come to see.”

Berring gave me a look of surprise and alarm. “Don’t tell me Mr. Grenville sent you to lure him away. I pay the fellow well—he’s a topping valet—but I could never offer him the distinguishment he’d get valeting for Mr. Grenville.”

“Grenville is in no need of a valet that I know of. I wished to ask Marcel about his former master, Mr. Horne.”

Berring made a face. “Nasty business, that. My footmen had to bodily evict the newspapermen all that night. Impudent fellows. What have you to do with it?”

“I am trying to discover who killed him.”

He raised his brows. “Why the devil? Isn’t that what the constables and Bow Street are for? Oh, do sit down, there’s a good fellow. But you must already know Horne’s butler has been arrested. Marcel told me all about it. Nothing more to discover.”

“But I believe Bremer did not kill him. That the murderer has not been found.”

“Good Lord.” Berring looked at his sofa cushions as though the murderer might be hiding beneath them. “Are you certain?”

“Fairly certain,” I said. “If I can find another culprit, I can make the magistrates certain.”

“But see here, surely you have no need to muck about in it yourself?”

I knew what he meant. A gentleman didn’t soil his hands chasing criminals or investigating crimes.

“I’m afraid there is no one else to muck about in it. On the day Horne died, did you happen to note anyone going or coming from his house?”

He shook his head. “We weren’t home that day at all, which is a mercy. We’d journeyed to Windsor to visit my wife’s family. Her father has an excellent wine cellar.”

“But you returned that night.”

“Very late. Such a ruckus there was next door. My footman came running back to tell of the murder, and I locked my wife and daughters and myself up tight in this house, I must say.”

“After you sent for Horne’s valet.”

Two spots of red stained his cheeks. “Had my eye on the fellow since my own man departed to get married. Marcel’s talents were wasted on a man like Horne. I saw no reason not to set him up here at once.”

“But he might have murdered Horne.”

“No, no, no. No question of that. He was away all that day, he told me. Only arrived home an hour after we did—and found his master dead. Took my offer there and then.”

For a moment I contemplated that Lord Berring murdered Horne for his valet, then I dismissed the thought. “I wonder if you’d allow me to speak to Marcel myself.”

Berring looked surprised. “Speak to him? He can’t tell you more than I have already.”

“Even so, I’d like to ask him a question or two.”

“Very well, I suppose it would do no harm.” He rose and tugged the bell pull, his expression bewildered. “Have a drop of port while we wait?”

Marcel was a tall and slim young Frenchman with a long, thin nose and wide set brown eyes. He regarded me with an air of rigid politeness, his correct bearing betraying only the faintest hint of curiosity.

“Yes, sir?”

Berring waved a hand at me. “This is Captain Lacey. He wants to ask you questions.”

Marcel turned forty five degrees and faced me. “Yes, sir?”

I had hoped to speak to Marcel alone, but Berring handed me a tumbler of port, then settled into the sofa and looked on with interest. I would have to make the best of it.

“The day your former master died,” I began, “you were out.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcel’s accent was faint, his English precisely pronounced. “I was gone all that day. Arrived home at nine o’clock, and found he had been killed. The staff were most upset.”

“And what did you do?”

“I went upstairs, packed my bags, and came here. His lordship had kindly offered me a place if I ever left Mr. Horne, and I came here to ask if he still wanted me. He did, and I took up the post immediately.”

“You were quick off the mark.”

Marcel made a gesture of indifference. “Mr. Horne was dead. What could I do?”

“Did the constables question you?”

“Indeed. The man, the Runner, was quite rude. Asked me a dozen questions about where I had been and what I had been doing.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That my business was my own on my days out. But I had not ever returned to the house, so how could I know what had happened?”

“You did not return at all that day?”

“No, sir. I had gone to Hampstead. I was very late returning. I was afraid Mr. Horne would be angry.”

“Was he often angry at you?”

“No, sir. He was seldom angry at all. But he liked his routines and did not like to vary them. At ten he liked a glass of port and for me to help him undress.”

“Every night? Did he not go out?”

“Not often, sir. He liked to stay at home.”

“You knew, then, about Lily and Aimee.”

Marcel looked blank a moment, then his cheeks reddened, though his countenance remained fixed. “Yes, I knew about them.”

My temper mounted. Like the rest of the staff, Marcel had known and had silently condoned. “And yet, you said nothing?”

Marcel gave me a direct look. “If you want frankness, sir, I will give it to you. I found Mr. Horne disgusting. I much prefer valeting for his lordship. But Mr. Horne paid me to look the other way, and so I looked the other way.”

I tapped my fingertips together. “Did it surprise you that someone had killed Mr. Horne?”

“It did very much, sir. He was not the most refined of gentlemen, but many men are not. I saw no reason to kill him for this. To murder must take great anger or hatred. To have enough of either, to be able to kill, one must be a madman.”

“You believe whoever killed him was a madman?”

“He must have been, sir.”

Berring looked up with a pained expression. “Is that all, Captain? This talk of murder is making me quite ill.”

“One more question, Marcel. Did Mr. Denis call often?”

Marcel blinked a moment. “Mr. Denis? No, sir, he never called at all. He sent someone when he wanted to communicate with Mr. Horne. I believe Mr. Horne owed him a great deal of money.”

“He came to the house that morning. Before Mr. Horne was killed.”

Marcel raised his brows. “Indeed, sir? That is very surprising.”

I regarded him in silence for a moment. Marcel kept his emotions below the surface, but he did not disguise them. I was certain Pomeroy would have checked in Hampstead regarding Marcel’s whereabouts, making sure the man had truly been where he said.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” I finished.

Lord Berring nodded at Marcel, who bowed and made his way out.

I deflated, as I realized that Marcel knew little more than I did. A pity Lord Berring’s family had been in Windsor that day. The curious females I’d seen upstairs would no doubt have known every coming and going next door. But I doubted that Lord Berring would have let me question his wife and daughters whether they’d been home at the time of the murder or not.

“Thank you,” I told Berring. “I’ll take no more of your time.”

Lord Berring waved me back down. “Nonsense, my good fellow. It’s a dreary day. Have some more port and stay for a chat. Only, let us turn the topic from murder, shall we? Aggravates my dyspepsia something horrible.”

Chapter Fifteen

After spending another three-quarters of an hour in unenlightening conversation with Lord Berring, I departed. I had tried to pry from him any information regarding Jane Thornton and Aimee, but he gave me a puzzled look and said he knew nothing about such goings-on. He could have been a master actor, but I didn’t think so.

Before leaving Hanover Square, I took a chance and knocked on the door of number 23. A footman answered.

“Mr. Preston is not at home, sir.”

“I’ve come to see Master Philip,” I answered. I handed him my card.

The footman studied it curiously, then me. “Master Philip is not here either, sir. He’s gone out in the carriage to take the air.”

I suppressed a dart of impatience, but there was little I could do. I did not know the family, and I could hardly force myself inside to wait. I made myself nod. “Please tell Master Philip that I called and that I will write to him for an appointment.”

The footman regarded me dubiously, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I made my way home then, intending to begin my search for Jane again, and to plan how to go about finding and getting myself introduced to Horne’s cousin, Mulverton. Then there was the matter of Charlotte Morrison to look into. But Grenville’s carriage stood in Russel Street, at the top of Grimpen Lane, and his footman politely informed me that Grenville was waiting for me at his club.